The lake was ten metres deep where they’d dumped Konrad’s body. They’d towed it out behind an inflatable which they’d stashed there earlier, then sunk it with iron weights. With luck it would never be found in such murky water.
The word Milzbrand featured in the headline in the Frankfurte Allgemeine. Kommissar Linz from the Bundeskriminalamt was quoted saying he had no idea where Pravic had got the anthrax bacillus, and would question him closely if he survived his wounds.
The journalists could speculate as much as they liked that it was from the Leipzig Veterinary Laboratory, but with both Kemmer and Konrad/Dunkel out of circulation, they’d find it hard to prove the connection. And the media were getting nowhere with the death of the chambermaid in Zagreb. The Croatian authorities were refusing to reveal who’d been booked in the hotel at the time and had even begun to deny it was anthrax that killed her.
Sanders put down the paper. The concourse bustled with business people rushing for their flights. Men and women for whom Bosnia, plutonium smuggling and anthrax were of little more than passing interest. Best to keep it that way.
And they would, unless Pravic talked.
Pfefferheim
Nancy Roche couldn’t hold back her tears. Everything had been too much in the last few days. Lorna hugged her and found her own eyes moistening.
Vildana sat in a chair by the kitchen table, her face pale, her dark eyes blank, her right arm in a sling. The twins and Nataša sat with her, gently easing her back into the world of a family.
Irwin and Nancy led Lorna and Alex to the living room.
‘We just want you guys to know that the Roche family’s in this for the duration,’ Irwin announced formally. ‘Nancy and I talked it over with the kids last night. Whatever it takes, Vildana has a home with us for as long as she likes.’
‘That’s just great,’ Lorna grinned, clasping his hands.
‘And something else you need to know,’ he went on, ‘I’ve put in for an early transfer to the States. We thought it best to move Vildana back home just as soon as we possibly can.’
‘That’s a swell idea. Couldn’t be better.’
‘What’s the hospital saying aboutVildana?’ Alex said.
‘Has to go back in a week to have the sutures out,’ Nancy explained. ‘But otherwise she should be okay. Shoulder will be sore for a while, and it could be months before she gets any strength back on that side. But the long-term looks good.’
‘And when we get home we’ll see what can be done about that birthmark,’ Roche added.
‘Sure. She’s real keen on that,’ Lorna confirmed. ‘Say, could I ask you for one last favour?’
‘Anything.’
‘Just to use your computer. It’ll save me setting up my own. If I can e-mail all this to CareNet, then I can sign off the case!’
‘Come on. I’ll set it up for you.’
Nancy turned towards Alex when her husband and Lorna had left the room.
‘What are your plans? You’re going back to Bosnia?’ she asked.
‘No. I doubt that,’ he replied. ‘No, Lorna and I plan to go off for a few days. We’re going to dump the Land Cruiser at the US Air Base, rent something cheap at the airport, then drive up the Mosel and find a pretty village to stay in.’
‘Gr . . . reat!’ Then she tilted her head in curiosity. She’d never quite worked out their relationship. ‘You two, you’ve known each other for some while?’
‘You could say that. On and off.’
Wiesbanden
Kommissar Gunther Linz was late into his office that morning. Hadn’t got to bed before two last night. He’d asked for the witness statements from the hospital and Pravic’s charge sheets to be ready on his desk by noon, so he could approve them before they were presented to the magistrate. At eleven-thirty when he arrived, the documents were already there.
The message sheet from the overnight duty officer had been buried underneath them. When he discovered it, he blanched.
A fax from MI5 in London telling him the Englishman Crawford was on an IRA death list . . . Unbelievable! Two agents were on their way to Frankfurt.
He looked at his watch. The British Security Service people would be landing at the airport any minute. He had nothing for them. Didn’t even know where Crawford was. And the crucial time gap that had worried Herr Chadwick – he’d done nothing about it.
He rang the Hotel Sommer. Crawford had checked out. He rang the Roche house in Pfefferheim. Crawford had been there. But he’d left with the Sorensen woman just two minutes ago. Heading for the airport, according to Frau Roche.
He picked up the internal phone. Better get a car from the anti-terrorist team to intercept the Land Cruiser at the Rhein-Main base.
‘Here we go!’
McCarthy prodded Tommy Nolan in the ribs. The white Toyota four-wheel-drive was on its way towards them down Mühlweg.
‘You okay?’ he checked. For the past couple of hours Nolan had been sighing and sweating like an old sow.
Nolan grunted.
‘Does that mean you’re ready, then?’
‘I’m ready,’ Nolan croaked, unconvincingly. He wished he’d had a drink to make it easier. Only done this once before. A soldier, off-duty in a pub, twenty-two years ago. On his conscience ever since. Sick with fear then. Sick with fear now.
McCarthy slipped the car into gear and cruised slowly out of the village, watching in his rear-view mirror as the target came up behind them. He’d spotted the ideal place on the way in. An opening in the pinewoods, with a muddy track leading into a clearing. Drive in there and they’d not be visible from the road.
They’d do it quick. Take the tout a few yards into the forest. If anyone heard, they’d think it was someone shooting pigeons. He glanced at Nolan. White as a sheet.
‘You’re not goin’ to throw up are youse?’ he hissed, fearful that Nolan would bungle it and get them caught. ‘Just remember your wee brother! A wee kid. And what the fucker did to him!’
‘Oh aye,’ Nolan growled. ‘Don’t worry. Don’t worry.’
He was close to wetting himself with nerves. Getting even with the bastard had been easy enough when it was just words over a pint in Dunphy’s. But in the cold, sober daylight of a bewilderingly foreign land, knowing whether he was doing right wasn’t so simple any more.
Lorna pulled out to overtake. The Golf dawdled annoyingly in front of them. She was impatient to put Pfefferheim into the past.
‘Shit!’ she hissed, as the VW began to accelerate, swerving to the middle of the road to block her. ‘I hate guys like that. Some creep with a small prick trying to show he’s tough.’
Alex put a hand against the dashboard to steady himself.
‘Keep cool. Don’t let him get to you,’ he soothed. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world.’
But the sudden acid burn in his stomach told him different. The tightening of the chest, the pounding pulse – that terrible clamminess was back. Like the day Jodie died, the certainty something was desperately wrong.
A kilometre from the village already. No more houses. Just trees.
‘What’s the bastard doing?’ Lorna cried, scared now.
The VW slowed, hogging the line in the middle of the empty road.
‘Alex! What do I do?’
He stared mesmerized as the Golf eased further out then slipped back, its rear overlapping the front of the Toyota. Two men in it.
‘Shit! We’ll be off the road!’ Lorna screamed.
Brake lights dazzled. The Golf just inches in front. Lorna stamped the pedal and wrenched the wheel to the right. A gap in the trees. A muddy track as an escape lane.
The Land Cruiser jolted over the rough ground, halting twenty metres from the road. In the mirror she saw the Golf stop and reverse in behind them.
‘Alex! For Christ’s sake – who are these people?’
He turned. Both men piling out of the VW, heads in thick, woollen sock masks, hands gripping guns.
Lorna’s door burst
open. A fist reached in and dragged her to the ground. She screamed.
‘Oh God, no,’ Alex gulped. The masked face at the window stared unblinking. A gloved finger beckoned. ‘Not now. Not after all this.’
The gunman pulled open the door.
‘Time’s up, Mister Jarvis!’ he growled, the Ulster twang unmistakable. He pointed deeper into the woods where Lorna was being frogmarched by the older man, his gun pressed to her spine.
Alex stumbled from the car. Stupid, stupid! Dropped his guard. After all those years . . . All those little tricks, those superstitions he’d believed would keep him alive . . .
Now he was like the stag in the Highlands, the beast that thought itself invincible. One moment’s inattention, then caught by the cross-hairs of the gun.
They were herded into a circle of pine trees, two people swept up years ago in a struggle they’d never really understood, called to account for their deeds twenty years on.
‘You’s the bastard . . . what touted . . . on my brother!’ The older man panting between the words, ignoring Lorna, concentrating on Alex. Nolan, circling like a hyena, jabbing at the air with his Springfield, not too close, not quite looking him in the eye.
McCarthy backed away, watching the road. The score to be settled here was a personal one. Had to be done by the man with the grievance.
‘What are you on about?’ Alex croaked, playing for time.
How had they found him? Not the TV, surely. Too soon, too quick for that.
‘Don’t gimme that, bastard! I knows who you are, Alex! For twenty fockin’ years you’s had it coming. An’ now you’s fockin’ goin’ to get it!’
He levelled the gun. Bloodshot eyes through the slits of the hood.
Anger boiled in Alex’s guts. Fear too. What to do? Confront or comply? Challenge – or beg for mercy?
‘No . . . o!’ Lorna screamed, interposing herself, hands outstretched as if to stop the bullets. It can’t happen, she thought. Not now . . . Not after everything . . .
‘And as for youse . . .’ Nolan growled at her, ‘come over here. Come on. Out the way!’
He grabbed her by the shoulder, spun her round to face Alex.
‘Will you tell him or shall I?’
‘What? What d’you mean?’ she croaked.
Alex gasped, a black, black thought erupting in his head. It was revenge they were after, sure enough. But whose revenge?
‘What d’you mean?’ Lorna’s voice, high-pitched, the squeak of a bat.
‘Your wee snap? He doesna know about it?’ Nolan goaded, plucking the photo from his coat pocket and letting it flutter onto the ground between them.
‘Annie!’ she gasped. ‘Oh my God! Annie, how could you?’
She’d forgotten her sister’s husband was still a firm supporter of the IRA. She turned to Nolan, eyes brimming with tears.
‘N-n-no!’ she stammered. ‘You’re wrong, you’re wrong! I didn’t . . . You think I sent you that picture? No. That wasn’t for you! No, listen. It’s over, all that. He’s paid already. Been punished. Suffered . . . just as much as you or I, or anybody!’
‘Shut your mouth!’ Nolan’s resolve was shaky enough as it was. He could do without her pleading.
Alex had to know. Had to be sure this wasn’t Lorna’s doing. A tit-for-tat betrayal.
‘Why now, Tommy?’ Alex’s voice hard and crisp. The use of the name was a gamble. It was the one he’d heard the minders talk of. ‘What good will it do?’
Nolan flinched. Anonymous he was an executioner carrying out orders. But ‘Tommy’ was personal. One to one. Man to man.
‘Shut your mouth, youse! You’s been sentenced. By the army council. Twenty fockin’ years ago!’
‘Twenty years! A long time, Tommy.’
Had Lorna set him up? Faked everything? Was she pretending still?
‘We’s don’t forget,’ Nolan snapped. But he couldn’t forget the weariness either. Weariness of war.
‘That’s your trouble, Tommy. But you’ll have to learn how to if you want peace.’
Alex shot a glance at Lorna. Deathly pale, mouth gaping. No fake. He was sure, almost. She looked destroyed by this.
‘How many hundreds have you boys killed in those twenty years?’ Adrenalin pumping, now. Fighting for his life. ‘Soldiers, police. Women out shopping. Schoolgirls.’
He saw Nolan flinch.
‘Suppose every one of your victims had a big brother wanting to get even. There’d be nowhere you could hide . . .’
He saw the eyes blink, the weight shift from foot to foot.
‘What d’you mean schoolgirls?’ Nolan spluttered. ‘Those was accidents. A mistake. We admitted it.’
‘Oh yes. Like me and Lorna meeting in Belfast – that was an accident. Getting mixed up in your troubles – that was a mistake. I’ll admit it too.’
‘Don’t give me that! Youse were different!’ But Nolan was rattled. A wedge was being driven between his bluster and his resolve.
‘There’s a cease-fire coming. You know that?’ Alex pressed.
‘Don’t be so sure . . .’ Nolan countered. He didn’t like this. Wanted the man to shut up.
‘Killing me won’t help.’
‘Fockin’ shut it!’
‘Not if the Provos want to be taken seriously. Not if you want to be political. Kill me and you could wreck everything . . .’
Alex gulped. Maybe that’s what they wanted. Maybe these two hoods had instructions from the hard men to wreck the peace process.
‘Fuckin’ get on with it, Tommy!’ McCarthy’s voice a growl from ten yards back. The swish of intermittent traffic on the road. With every second the growing danger they’d be seen.
Nolan raised the pistol level with Alex’s mouth. First pressure on the trigger, sweat trickling into his eyes. Aim for the chest. It’d be easier to look at . . .
‘Look me in the eye Tommy if you’re going to do it.’ Alex’s throat bone dry. Heart galloping. ‘And tell me why. Tell me what good it’ll do. Tell me who’ll thank you for it . . .’
Nolan forced his gaze higher. Just for a second. Just for long enough to register the face of the man they’d called a hero on TV. The man who’d helped save the life of a kid and hundreds more. Someone who’d suffered as much as any of them . . . so the Donohue woman had said . . . What had she meant? Too late to find out, now.
‘I’ve forgotten your brother’s name . . .’ Alex’s tone softer now.
‘Kieran . . .’
‘He wouldn’t thank you. All that killing, all that hate – didn’t get him anywhere, did it?’
‘Do it Tommy!’ The yell from behind.
Alex plundered his memory for everything the minders had told him about Tommy Nolan.
‘You don’t have to, Tommy,’ Alex whispered. ‘Don’t let him tell you what to do. He’s only young. What does he know . . .’
He saw the gun shake in Nolan’s hand. Heard the wheeze of the breath.
‘You can forgive, you know,’ Alex persisted. ‘Like the mother of the soldier-boy you shot?’ Gambling again. Gambling he’d remembered it right. ‘She forgave you didn’t she? Said so on TV the day of the funeral . . .’
Slowly, inch by inch, Nolan’s arm dropped down. With his free hand he plucked the sock mask from his head, then used it to wipe the sweat from his face. He turned and looked at Lorna.
‘Stupid bitch!’ The word flung at her like a gob of spit.
Nolan stumbled towards McCarthy, the Springfield hanging limply at his side.
‘Couldn’t fockin’ do it,’ he spat. ‘Couldn’t pull the friggin’ trigger.’
‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ McCarthy exploded. What a waste of time. Risking everything – and for what? He thought of stepping forward, doing the job himself. But what would be the point? It had been Nolan’s grudge.
‘Get in the shagging car!’ he growled.
McCarthy pulled his pocket knife out. He paused by the Land Cruiser, crouched by the nearside front wheel, then jabbed its spike
into the tyre.
The hiss of escaping air jerked Lorna from her trance. She turned to see the doors of the VW slam and the car speed away.
Unsure of his legs, Alex stepped forward, bent down to the carpet of pine needles and picked up the snapshot McFee had taken in Bosnia.
He held it in his shaking hand. His face and hers, smiling tensely, neither sure of the other one’s thoughts.
‘Not bad . . .’ he croaked. ‘Considering.’
Lorna flung her arms round his neck, quivering with relief.
‘I . . . I never thought,’ she stammered. ‘Sent it to my sister with a note saying we’d met again. What I meant was – isn’t that unbelievable! She must have imagined I meant something else.’
‘I guess she must have,’ Alex replied, holding her loosely.
For more than a minute they leaned against one another, each conscious of the other’s breathing, thoughts circling like moths round an oil lamp.
‘Is . . . is that it, d’you think?’ she asked suddenly.
Alex looked up through the crowns of the pine trees. Flecks of blue visible through the grey of the sky.
‘I believe it may be . . .’ he murmured.
The poltergeists had been exorcized.
‘Do you know what I’d like to do now?’ she asked.
Alex looked over at the stranded Land Cruiser, praying the spare wheel was inflated.
‘Vanish,’ she said. ‘With you.’
Epilogue
Dr Hamid Akhavi died from pulmonary anthrax the following day, but the Iranian authorities never made it public.
Colonel Pavel Kulikov’s life was saved by the vaccine he’d been given in 1991. Finding that his contact with Iran had been cut, he began to look for other markets for the stolen plutonium.
Milan Pravic recovered from his wounds and was transferred to a remand prison to await trial for the attempted murder of Vildana Muminovic. Kommissar Gunther Linz continued to hope that before long he could persuade him to reveal where he’d obtained the anthrax bacillus. The United Nations War Crimes Tribunal in the Hague announced its intention to prosecute Pravic for the crime of genocide. Two days later he was stabbed to death in a knife fight with another Bosnian prisoner.
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